


you know what they say about the young

by robin_hoods



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Crack, F/M, Misunderstandings, Sexual Humor, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_hoods/pseuds/robin_hoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumour is, Wylla Manderly gave Theon Greyjoy crabs.</p><p>And he's not denying it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you know what they say about the young

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the kink meme, and my first contribution for Theon week. :)
> 
> Title is from Rusted Root's _Send Me On My Way_.

Theon's just pulled his tunic over his head when there's a knock on his door. Short, but firm. Probably not one of the kitchen wenches, he thinks, they're usually a lot more insistent than this. Shame, he was in for a bit of a rump tonight, especially after dinner.

He unlocks the door, and pulls it open, not very impressed when he sees it's Robb. Pardon, Lord Stark. Robb takes his responsibilities very seriously (too seriously, Theon thinks), after Ned Stark went off to King's Landing with his two daughters, and his lady mother went to chase the person responsible for her son's fall, and subsequent assassination. “I need to speak with you,” Robb announces, as if they haven't been friends for close to ten years this year, and Theon is merely a vassal subject to Robb's every whim.

“Isn't that what you're doing right now?” Theon replies, and Robb frowns. Theon's still taller than him, and he prides himself in the fact the Lord of Winterfell has to crane his neck to properly look at him. “So, what was it?”

“Inside,” Robb says, “I don't want anyone else to hear. It's probably too late to stop word from getting out, but we can't be too careful.”

Theon steps aside, a little flabbergasted. What could be so urgent and secret that it needs their absolute discretion? He can't think of anything, if he is honest. Did Rickon manage to run off again, despite the amount of people keeping an eye on him? Or did Robb perhaps discover a fault in their administration, finding out the Starks were millions in debt to the crown? Or maybe, Theon thought, thinking about the castle's most sullen inhabitant, maybe Jon was a secret Targaryen? The thought alone of that moping bastard as technical heir to the throne almost made him snort.

“I heard a rumour,” Robb starts after Theon's closed the door. “A rumour about you and... Wylla Manderly.”

Theon raises an eyebrow. “So? A rumour's a rumour. There's little truth to them, you know as well as I do.”

“It was rather... persistent,” Robb continues. “Detailed, as well.”

“Detailed? What, was it some profound poetry about the colour of her hair?” Wylla Manderly stands out most because her hair is coloured a dark green, perhaps the colour of forests or soft moss girls like to fall asleep on, or the colour of seaweed that always washed up ashore on the beaches of Pyke. Strangely enough, she reminds him of home.

“Theon,” Robb says, his voice strung high enough to raise a few octaves – which sounds a bit funny on a boy barely breaking into the deeper baritones he will grow to have one day. “They say that _Wylla Manderly_ gave you _crabs_!”

Theon opens his mouth, then closes it again, and Robb's gone so red he matches the roots of his hair, obviously embarrassed. “But she did,” Theon finally manages. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

For some reason, this throws Robb off even more. “Lower your voice,” he hisses, “someone could hear. And are you sure that... that she gave them to you, and that... you didn't give them to her?”

Theon laughs. “Robb, where would I even _get_ crabs? I don't know if you've noticed, but they're rather sparse here.”

“No, I hadn't noticed. I'm rather busy with running a household. And you're absolutely certain about it?”

“She even said she caught them herself,” Theon replies, starting to feel like he's missing something important, as if no one's clued him in yet.

“Oh Gods,” Robb groans. “This is a disaster. You realise she's a noble girl, right? Her father's going to want compensation, and maybe even marriage. Why couldn't you just have gotten your bloody crabs from some kitchen girl?”

“...why would a kitchen wench give me crabs?” Theon asks at long last. “They have about as much access to them as you do. And marriage? Isn't that a little excessive? They're just crabs, Robb. It's not the end of the world.”

“Lord Manderly is one of my Father's bannermen,” Robb argues, and he has started pacing back and forth. “I had to make sure I was right, but... You're not even denying it, Theon. I'm afraid I'll have to send out ravens, possibly to make arrangements, and...” He stops, and looks at Theon. “If her father agrees, you'll have to marry her. As soon as possible, of course.”

“Excuse me?” Theon is stunned into silence, for once, and Robb takes the liberty to continue.

“Your family will have to know as well, considering you're the heir to Pyke, but if the Manderlys demand a marriage we'll hardly be able to refuse them.”

“But--” Theon tries, but now that Robb is on a roll there's hardly a word he can edge in.

“And neither can you,” he's saying now. “I'll never be able to understand how you...” Robb shakes his head again. “All right, this is how we're going to do it. I'll be off to send some ravens right away, you need to stay here and...” He rambles on a bit more about how Theon should treat Wylla, sighs in exasparation three times more, threatens serious repercussions if he doesn't go through with this, and then remembers he was going to send the ravens and leaves, but not before telling Theon he can't leave his room, especially not to see Wylla.

Theon stares at the closed door.

He's fairly certain no one on the Iron Islands would have reacted this badly to a fishing woman.

 

*

 

To Theon's surprise, his father actually agrees to the match. Not in so many words, of course, but “bring your woman for a proper wedding soon” sounds enough like an agreement to Theon.

Winterfell is in flurry, courtesy of Robb, as they're all preparing to leave for White Harbour. Lord Wyman Manderly has agreed to them being wed as well, but insists on it being held in his own town, as his old bones are no longer fit for travel. A complete lie, Theon knows. He's just too fat to climb a horse, let alone ride to Winterfell for days on end.

The bride and groom themselves, however, aren't looking forward to the wedding. Theon is not exactly in a hurry to get married, and neither is Wylla, to be honest. He's spoken to her only once since Robb came to see him, supervised by maester Luwin while Bran had looked on. “Everyone's gone mad,” she'd stated back then, rolling her eyes as if she'd had years of practice at mocking everybody in the world. Everyone's still mad, Theon thinks, asking him questions about food and guests and (when they think nobody can hear) the crabs.

It's not even two weeks later that they finally leave Winterfell. Wylla saddles up beside him, the blond of her hair finally showing underneath the green, and, okay, he's willing to admit by now that he's come to like it. It doesn't even look that strange anymore.

It takes them a considerable amount of time on the road to reach White Harbour, with the amount of people that accompany them there. Theon can feel Robb's eyes on him the entire road, as he and Wylla pleasantly talk and share stories of being at sea, the best ways to prepare seafood, and elder siblings who claim they know best (but usually don't). If he has to marry someone, Theon concedes, he doesn't mind so much if it's to Wylla Manderly.

When they have finally arrived, it doesn't take long before both of them are brought before the man ruling White Harbour. Ser Wyman Manderly narrows his eyes at Theon while he sits squished in his chair. “So you are the young man that... shared some unpleasantries with our dear Wylla.” He's looking at Theon as if he would very much like to do some unpleasant things to him himself, and Theon shrugs helplessly. He's repeated the same argument of, “But they're just crabs!” so many times by now there's hardly anything that could sway these people's minds.

“It's not his fault,” Wylla intervenes, probably sensing Theon is about to say something incredibly stupid.

“Is it not?” Wyman never loses sight of Theon, despite the fact his granddaughter is currently speaking to him. “Your reputation precedes you, boy.”

“My... reputation?” Theon repeats.

“Oh, yes,” Wylla interrupts, “the girls warned me off you before I'd even reached Winterfell.”

“What _girls_?” Theon demands to know. “Most girls I know are perfectly happy to get to know me!”

“Exactly,” Wylla says, raising an eyebrow at him.

Ser Wyman clears his throat in the front of the hall. “As I believe all preparations have been taken care of, we shall get this over with as soon as possible. On the morrow, you will be able to call yourself a married couple. I better hear no more rumours of your endeavours; I've always thought Wylla would make a good and proper widow one day.”

Theon resigns himself to the fact the wedding is going through, and there is nothing he can do about it. When he goes to bed that night, for the first time it's with the pleasant sound of crashing waves in his ears.

With a small audience they stand in front of a septon the next day; Theon sweeps his cloak across her shoulders and just like that, Wylla is no longer a Manderly, but a Greyjoy.

The main course for the guests is crabs. Theon suddenly wonders if the Manderlys knew about the mix-up after all. Wylla catches his eye even while she sits beside him on the dais, and winks. Robb, who is sitting on Theon's other side, just glowers at his plate, and eats painfully slowly.

“You should at least have the decency to look happy,” Theon tells him, not even bothering with any cutlery. “If not for your agreeable hosts, then at least for me.”

“I suppose it worked out,” Robb admits, and takes a large gulp from his goblet.

“Oh, it did,” Theon says, and holds out his own cup so it can be refilled. He looks down at his plate, and chews thoughtfully at another piece of crab. “You know, I never did ask you where you'd heard that rumour about Wylla and me.”

“Just... the kitchens.” Theon isn't sure if it's the wine colouring Robb's cheeks red, or something else.

“Ah, the kitchens. Best spot for gossip, if you want to know what's really going on. So what were those kitchen wenches talking about?”

“Don't call them _wenches_ ,” Robb says, and Theon shrugs. “They said...” At this point he looks down at his plate, back up at Theon, then down at his plate again. “...that it was awfully nice of Wylla. To give you those crabs.” Theon's smile widens, and he can pinpoint the exact moment when Robb realises, his eyes widening more than a fraction, his mouth dropping open.

“I _did_ say it all seemed a little excessive for some crabs, didn't I?”

Robb looks at Wylla, who smiles widely at the both of them, and seven hells, Theon thinks, is that _her hand_ on his knee?

“You mean, you didn't...” Robb looks between them.

“Still a maiden,” Wylla says, and steals a crab leg off Theon's plate, slapping his hand when he tries to swipe it back.

“Not for long,” Theon replies. “You know what they say about women and seafood.”

“I suppose just as much as they say about men having more than one head to think with,” Wylla airily says. “Tell me, is that whole kraken thing just a figure of speech, or is there anything else I need to prepare for?”

Wylla's question goes unanswered, however, as a drunk Northman stands up and bellows, “Bedding!” and shouts of agreement follow him.

 

*

 

“How come you never tell me stories of men luring in mermaids from the sea?” Wylla asks Theon one day while they lie in their bed, having to speak loudly over the noise of the brewing storm outside, where the wind and water throw themselves at the rocks and cliffs of Pyke.

“Mermaids?” Theon laughs, his sides shaking so hard that she reluctantly leans back.

“I didn't realise that was so funny,” she says, and moves swiftly across the bed to sit on his lap, and he softly groans.

“It is,” he admits, “but I thought mermaids were the ones to lure in the men, not the other way around.” He grins. “I could tell you a story or two of how one of those men was led astray when a mermaid offered him what he wanted most.”

“And what was that?” she softly asks, and he pulls her down on top of him, to whisper in her ear.

“Crabs.”


End file.
